


the write-in

by encroix



Category: Jane the Virgin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/encroix/pseuds/encroix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five romance novel moments jane and rafael don't have (and one they kind of do).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the write-in

**Author's Note:**

> Written post 1x02 but hopefully nothing from this point on's going to make any of this sound ludicrous. Thanks to hariboo for looking over it and helping it be the best that it can be. 
> 
> Also: there's porn. (Just a bit.)

**i. high school reunion**

 

 

God, she could kill Lina right now.

If it wasn’t for her, she’d be living it up at home, like most people, with her snacks and her comfiest pair of sweatpants, some hot chocolate, a grilled cheese, and her telenovelas. Instead, she’s dressed in some ridiculously tight dress Lina bought her just to show a bunch of people she once hated who once hated her that she’s no longer the girl they used to shove into lockers.

She’s just not this kind of person. Not the kind of person who wants to show up somewhere ten years after the fact and go  _ hi, remember me? i’m so much better than you now so don’t you feel badly about how you treated me before?  _ Not that she was much better. Everyone’s a mess in high school. It was the era of George W. Bush and peasant tops; it wasn’t a good time for anyone.

So now she’s here, standing by the punch bowl, while Lina grinds on some old state champ wrestler in the corner of the room, because, well, it’s high school all over again, so why not?  _ Fun _ , she’d said.  _ You  _ have  _ to come. I need a friend, and it’ll be fun _ ! Exclamation point and everything.

“You look like you’re having a great time.”

Forcing a smile, she turns and reaches for the ladle. “Punch?”

He lifts his cup in answer. “Already got some. Thanks.”

Her smile flattens. Maybe if she just waits it out, he’ll leave. Maybe.

“You look familiar.”

She shrugs. “It’s a high school reunion. Everyone looks familiar.”

“You look _really_ familiar,” he says, and she sips at the weak punch, shifting her weight between her feet and trying to give off some kind of symbol that she wants him to leave. 

God, when she sees Lina again, she’s going to tear her apart.

She didn’t come here to deal with her former high school crush (who seems to have gotten  _ prettier  _ over the years, which is not how these things are supposed to work) trying to talk to her over the weakest spiked punch she’s ever had the displeasure to try - these things aren’t even supposed to happen in real life! not to people like her! - when she came here to be a  _ good friend  _ to someone who’s now AWOL. The longer he lingers by the table, though, the more it looks like she’ll need to say something. 

“Did we used to go out?”

“What?” she says, dropping the ladle back into the punch bowl with a soft splash. “No! I, um...”

“Are you - “ he says, peering behind his shoulder, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“No.”

“Oh, did you used to work at _Caliente Ca_ \--“

She clicks her tongue. “No!” And after a small pause, she adds, “Asshole.”

He sets his cup of punch down against the table and crosses his arms over his chest, just  _ looking  _ at her.

“People are going to think there’s a line,” she says.

“What?” 

“A line,” she says. “For the punch bowl. You’re going to give people the wrong impression.”

“I’m sure if people want some, they’ll ask.”

He gives her another expectant look, and she huffs a sigh. “I used to work at the yacht club,” she says, and he makes a soft noise of recognition. “I’m sure you don’t remember - “

“No,” he says. “No, I do. I remember you. Jane, right?”

She bites her lip and mirrors him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Mmhmm.”

He grins at her then. A full on Hollywood kind of smile that she didn’t even think real people did outside of the movies. “You made me the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”

She tries to suppress a smile. “It’s all I can do, really. Food-wise.”

“What do you say I pay you back?” he says. At her narrowed eyes, he adds, “For the grilled cheese. With whatever you want.”

“I came with my friend to the reunion,” she says, gesturing vaguely into the crowd on the dance parquet. “I just can’t leave.”

“We’ll come back,” he says. “I’ll write you a hall pass and everything.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just because everyone thought they were in love with you in high school, you think you can just...” 

“Hotel bar,” he interrupts. “A cheeseburger or something? A cuban? Ham and cheese? And then you can run right back to the lobby. I promise. You’ll probably make it back in time for the electric slide.”

She opens and closes her mouth, weighing the situation. It’s true that she hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch, and a cheeseburger  _ does  _ sound amazing. A cheeseburger that she doesn’t have to pay for sounds extra amazing.

“What about...” she starts.

He does a little step right in front of her. “Cha cha real smooth?”

“Who’s going to supervise the punch bowl?” she finishes, lamely. 

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that sends a shiver along her spine (totally the air conditioning, totally normal, everyone knows they keep these places super cold), leaning in to rip the corner off the cheap paper tablecloth. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a pen, he clicks it once and scribbles something down before placing it on the table, pinning it with the stacked Solo cups.

_ out for a bite. help yourself. _

“What do you say?” 

She wrinkles her nose. “I  _ do  _ want a cheeseburger. Maybe some french fries.”

“After you.”

“This isn’t one of those things where you end up stiffing me with the bill, are you?”

He laughs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “No,” he says. “I promise it isn’t.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Good.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**ii. stuck in an elevator**

 

 

She’s running late for her first day of work. Which definitely was not a) what she was planning, b) the kind of impression she wants to make on a new job, and c) her fault. 

 

 

Reasons why it was not her fault, in no particular order:

1\. Inclement weather always makes the bus late.

2\. Late buses always make for packed buses full of people who refuse to move and accommodate other people.

3\. Her bus driver was in training? (Which, sure, that makes sense, but it isn’t anything she’d like to think about for extended periods of time. And training on  _ her  _ time when she was already running late was not great.)

 

 

Which all makes for a bunch of excuses that no manager would want to hear because first days are supposed to be the most important kinds of first impressions. So when she’s sprinting her way to the lobby elevator, she thinks nothing of the fact of her rudeness in jabbing at the ‘door close’ button until the doors start moving. (Desperate times, desperate measures, or something like that.)

He slips in right at the last second.

Which turns out to be unlucky.

“Sorry,” he says, with a slight shake of the head. Water flings onto the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s really pouring out.” He leans in to punch the button for the penthouse, and she tries to stifle a sigh. (It works about half as well as she needs it to.)

“No problem.”

The elevator’s pretty standard for a hotel like this. One of those tube elevators that have become so popular all of a sudden - shooting up real fast with glass on all sides so you can see out into the lobby. (She wonders if the Jay-Z and Solange business has made anyone think twice about installing them.)

They shoot up with a quiet rush of air for the first fifteen stories until there’s an awful grinding noise, the elevator jerking awkwardly to a stop. She wobbles on her feet for a moment, and he sets a hand against her shoulder to steady her.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” she says. “What’s going on? Did you knock against one of the buttons or something?”

“No?” he says, turning towards the back of the elevator. Bracing his hand against the glass, he peers out into the lobby. She follows his glance and sees nothing but the large potted palms. “I think maybe we’re stuck?”

She looks at him, her eyes wide. “Stuck? What do you mean, stuck?”

“Stuck,” he repeats. He jumps to show his point, and she winces. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to fall. Just have to...” He pushes a bright red button, and a shrill bell starts going off. “It’ll call the lobby. Or the fire department. Or something.”

“Great,” she says. “It’s supposed to be my first day today.”

“Supposed to be?”

She shrugs. “I was - I  _ am  _ \- really late, and getting stuck in an elevator isn’t going to sound at  _ all  _ like a believable excuse. It’s like the dog ate my homework, you know?”

Slouching against the wall, he says, “I’ll vouch for you.”

“Thanks,” she says, “but I don’t even know who you are.”

He extends a hand. “I’m Rafael Solano,” he says, as if that answers anything. “I own this hotel.”

Her mouth drops. “You - you own - “

“This hotel, yeah.”

She takes his hand, and gives it what she hopes is a firm squeeze. (Level gaze, firm squeeze, not too hard or too soft.) His hand feels soft. Moisturized. A moneyed hand. Stuck in an elevator with her boss’s boss’s boss. Well. This is good. Totally fine. Totally normal. This kind of thing must happen to people all the time (right? Right?) and she can make enough small talk to last her until the doors open again. Good. Plans are good. This plan - maybe not so much - but plan is better than no plan, so... at least there’s that.

“This is taking a while, huh?” he says.

She shakes her head. “You really don’t have to say anything.”

His eyes flick over her for a moment, and her cheeks suddenly feel warm. “Why not? I want to.”

“People might...” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, “get the wrong idea. About why you decided to stick up for me.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Okay. I understand.”

She smiles. “Okay,” she says. “Good.”

 

 

 

 

 

They sit in the elevator for another ten minutes while the front desk calls the elevator company, while the elevator company dispatches a tech, while the tech... does whatever it is elevator techs do to get the elevator moving again.

When they start moving on, she jumps. The remaining floors to her destination seem slower than before, but eventually, it stops and the doors open.

He gives her a small wave as she steps off onto the floor, and she finds herself returning it because, well, isn’t it rude to not wave back when someone waves at you?

“Good luck with the job,” he calls, and before she can answer, the doors close after him.

 

 

 

 

 

Her next scheduled shift, she shows up twenty minutes early to talk to the manager on duty, her apology all plotted out with three major organizing points: i) make little to no excuses, ii) guarantee it will never happen again, iii) emphasize her reliability, responsibility, and trustworthiness. 

Halfway into her speech - a  _ minor  _ speech - the manager holds up a hand and says, “It’s all right, Jane. It’s been taken care of.”

“What do you mean?”

The manager, Bianca, shrugs. “Came from above. Just don’t do it again, all right?”

She nods. “Won’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**iii. caught under the mistletoe**

 

 

The best kinds of office Christmas parties are the ones that have  _ open bar  _ attached to them. Or so Lina tells her.

And they’re in the hospitality industry so, sometimes, depending on the hotel, depending on the manager, depending on the season, they’re in the mood to be a little hospitable. Except they’re in the hospitality business, so the office party is in the back room with a few bottles of the good liquor - a present from the Boss - on a Tuesday night.

Doesn’t keep Jane from ordering a few shots of the Patrón though because you might as well when it’s on someone else’s tab.

Lina’s had more than her fair share, and she’s leaning against Hilda’s shoulder, warbling  _ Como la flor  _ at the top of her lungs and nowhere near on key. Everyone’s alcohol buzz is starting to wear off, and it’s quickly becoming one of those situations where people are ten minutes away from being sick -- aka her cue to leave.

She texts her mom to pick her up, and makes quick words to Lina before heading towards the exit.

This -- inevitably, unexplainably -- is where her night gets...complicated.

“ _Girl_ , wait!” Lina cries, and she stills, turning to face her, halfway into an exasperated sigh.

“What is it?”

“Look at where you’re standing.”

She looks down.

“Wrong way.”

Then up.

“Oh, shit, Lina, there isn’t even anyone - “

And that’s when she hears him clear his throat. The unlucky passerby. The tall, really  _ handsome _ , unlucky passerby.

“I have a boyfriend,” she blurts.

“It’s mistletoe, Jane,” Lina answers. “ _Not_ an engagement, all right? So just get into some kind of holiday spirit and, you know.”

“I’m sure he - ” she says, gesturing madly, “doesn’t want to kiss a total stranger. I mean, mistletoe, Lina? Really?”

Lina grunts. “Jane, you are  _ no  _ fun.”

“I am fun. I’ve had a couple of shots of fun. And now it’s time for me to go home.”

Tall Dark Handsome (TDH) narrows his eyes at her. “You driving?”

She smiles, touching her hand against his wrist. “No,” she says. “I have a ride.”

“We don’t have to do the mistletoe,” he says. “I get how it can be weird when you don’t know them.”

“It’s a little weirder if you _do_ know the person, too. Sometimes.”

His mouth quirks into a small smile. “So?”

“Just - ” she begins, with a slight toss of the head, “Not on the mouth.”

“Okay. So,” he says. “How’s here?” He touches the pad of his finger against the very-warm apple of her cheek, and she nods. A small motion.

He leans down then, and his breath is warm against her skin as he presses a quick peck against her cheek.

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

“Looks like my ride is here,” she says, with a hard swallow.

He smiles at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She meets his gaze, and offers a small smile in response. “You too.”

 

 

 

 

 

That night, she very much doesn’t dream about him - his cologne strong and pleasant as he leans down and kisses her -  _ really  _ kisses her - and dream her lets him because it’s a dream and that’s how dreams work (no matter what her abuela thinks about them as prophecies). Dream him has a soft mouth and they get to first base, his hand brushing against the ends of her hair, her standing on her tiptoes to keep the kiss going. 

His stubble scratches against her palm when she reaches up to cup his face.

He even sighs her name. (See, he doesn’t even know her name. Total fiction.)

In the dream, he doesn’t say  _ merry christmas  _ and her mom doesn’t pick her up.

In the dream, things happen.  _ Things  _ happen. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**iv. fake dating**

 

 

It isn’t on purpose. 

She’s just gotten out of her engagement and she hasn’t had time to tell all of the family yet - there’s a lot of family to tell - and so when her tia abuela and her second husband’s family come charging in, there isn’t exactly time to explain all the ins and outs of what happened. Not with seventeen people descending on them with eight platters of food and a handful of gifts.

And she just happens to be standing next to him at the time. Pregnant.

You can see where the confusion would come from.

Her cousins(? Not her cousins by blood, but, well, great-aunt’s second husband’s daughters and their nieces) cluck at her, teasing, and she just decides to go along with it because, well, they aren’t - weren’t - getting invited to the wedding, and she only sees them once every eighteen years apparently, so, one night and then she’ll never have to deal with them again. (Just the gossip. Which, fine.  _ Fine _ .)

They kiss Rafael on both cheeks, and he seems to have a handle on enough Spanish to be able to shoot her a questioning look and nod along to everything they’re rattling off to him.

“Did you not tell them?” he hisses at her as she passes him towards the buffet table.

“I didn’t get the chance,” she says. “They just saw me like this and...assumed.”

“And you’re...?”

“I’m never going to see them again,” she says, “so... we’re running with it.”

“We are?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m carrying your baby,” she says. “If that’s not supposed to get me any perks, then what will?”

He sighs, and she smiles.

“Now, I’m going to fix myself a plate. Try not to get eaten alive.”

 

 

 

 

 

He manages to survive by the skin of his teeth. Although when she finds him again, his shirt’s been unbuttoned and rumpled at the top, the collar uneven, and he’s nursing a neat scotch.

“You doing all right?”

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, and she laughs, reaching out to smooth his collar.

“Jane,” someone calls, and she turns, the flash of a camera catching her off guard.

“Tia abuela,” she says, “what was that?”

Her tia smiles back at her. “You looked so sweet,” she says in Spanish. “The two of you. How about another, eh? Where he’s hugging you?” At her stunned silence, she adds pointedly, “Since we never get to see you that often.”

She can already feel him moving into position behind her, his arms solid as they wrap around her ribcage, just over the swell of her belly. His chin settles against her shoulder, and all the other women in the room seem to sigh collectively.

She turns to look at him, whispering her thanks as she reaches up to pat his hand. 

The flash goes off. From the corner, from her great-aunt’s old school Polaroid in front, from the side.

“Hey,” she says, and he looks up to meet her gaze. “Really, I mean it. Thank you.” And somewhere in the middle of those sentences, her voice cracks and her eyes start tearing because she’s pregnant which is basically another way of saying that she’s almost always over-the-top emotional now. (She almost cried at the toaster the other day because the idea of toast suddenly seemed so sad.)

His hands come up to cup her face, and he’s murmuring words she can’t catch in a comforting tone of voice, and she feels a little bit worse for even needing to be corralled like this. Emotionally speaking.

They kiss. It’s soft. Tender. Quiet.

She doesn’t know who moved first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**v. first time**

 

 

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, because he’s an idiot. Off her look, he adds, “Okay, _try_ not to be nervous.”

His nose bumps against her shoulder as he kisses up her neck before pressing a soft kiss to her mouth.

“It’s our first time together,” she says, voice trailing off into a whisper as his teeth graze the hollow of her throat. “It’s _my_ first time.”

“Hey,” he says, taking her face in his hands, “are you sure you’re okay with this? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She grins, leaning forward to kiss him, her tongue pushing into his mouth, her thumb brushing against the bone of his wrist. He sighs when she pulls away, and she tries to smile. “I’m sure,” she says. “I want this. I promise. I’m just - I’m feeling kind of...jittery, you know?”

His teeth bite down into his lip as he grins.

“What?” 

“I have an idea,” he says, kissing his way down her body. 

“Raf,” she says, as his fingers work the button open on her pants.

He shushes her, and the noise of the zipper seems incredibly loud in the quiet of her room. 

Tugging lightly at her jeans, he works them down off her legs, leaving them against the foot of her bed.

“What if someone walks in?”

Moving to kneel on the floor, he reaches for her ankles and pulls her towards the edge. She giggles - a nervous burst of noise - as she settles herself back into a comfortable position, her legs dangling off of the end, right foot kicking idly. “Then they’ll see a little more of you than they bargained for.”

She kicks at his shoulder. “Stop it.”

Catching her foot, he presses a kiss to the jut of her ankle. His fingers graze against the sides of her legs as he reaches for her underwear and gently eases them off. 

There’s a small kiss that follows on one leg. Then her calves. Small kisses that inch their way up to her inner thigh. Her breath catches in her throat as he turns and nuzzles his face against her thigh, his stubble scratching lightly against her.

“Want me to stop?”

She grunts, picturing the smug, self-satisfied look on his face, and tries to kick at his hand. 

“I thought so.” His hands span her thighs then, sliding up to her hips, his thumbs drawing circles against her skin. When he leans his mouth in to press another kiss against her thigh, she tenses. “ _Relax_.” 

When he presses his first kiss against her, she sighs. His hand comes up to settle against her hip, keeping her still as his tongue swipes at her in broad strokes. It warms her from the inside out, the feeling of wanting him, of wanting his mouth to be closer, of wanting his touch to never stop. Her hand finds its way to his hair, fingertips brushing against his scalp. She moans quietly when he nudges his nose against her.

“How are you doing?” he asks, voice low, and when she meets his gaze, she notices how dark his eyes are, pupils wide with desire. He looks a little dangerous, and her body responds with a shudder.

Nodding, she exhales and lays back down as his hands settle on her hips. Nudging her legs further apart with his shoulder, his mouth moves to fix on her cunt. She feels molten, too-warm and fidgeting to get closer, caught between the wet heat of his mouth and the light cotton of her sheets. He’s murmuring something to her that she doesn’t hear, but the vibrations linger against her and she can’t even bother to think anymore.

Just breathes his name, hands grabbing at anything she can reach.

She can hardly register the noises she’s making (and even if she could, she would have hardly believed she was making them).

The hard point of his tongue flicks against her and her hips cant up sharply, his name caught on a sharp gasp. When her nails scratch at his scalp, he answers with a low groan of his own. The heat of his mouth is everywhere around her; everything is him, is this moment - her hips seem to find their own rhythm, rocking against his face as he hums, his tongue tracing shapes against her.

His stubble scratches along her thigh and she cries out, her hand tightening in his hair and her entire body tensing with release.

He slows his pace then, and the jagged rock of her hips slows to something closer to normal.

“Oh, my god,” she murmurs, and he chuckles, brushing his mouth against her thigh with a soft kiss.

“Relaxed?” he says.

She laughs. “Come up here.”

He clambers up onto the bed beside her and she pushes him down against the bed, moving to rest on top of him. Her kisses are slow and sloppy as she adjusts her hips against him, rocking back and forth against his hard length.

“See,” she whispers, “I think I can figure the gist of it out.”

He laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**vi. sharing an umbrella in the rain**

 

 

This would happen to her: the bad cherry on top of a shitty day sundae - pouring rain and her usual bus stop temporarily closed because of road construction. The totally unhelpful paper sign just tells her to catch the bus at the next stop.

Pouring rain and she’s got to hustle it ten blocks without an umbrella to catch a later bus. Great.

It’s the kind of heavy rain that makes everything miserable - the air still muggy and humid, the rain coming down in thick sheets, the droplets fat and stinging as they come down. It makes her clothes stick to her skin, and her hair stick to her face, and without any wind, it makes her feel in need of a shower immediately.

She’s halfway down the sixth block when she hears someone call her name. Turning, she tries to squint through the water, but sees no one. 

“Jane!”

She blinks, and there, right by the stop sign, is a tiny red sports car with a very familiar face peeking out of it.

“Do you need a ride?”

She shakes her head, wet hair slapping against her cheeks and mouth. “No, thank you!”

“It’s pouring, Jane.”

“I’m aware,” she says, “but I’m on my way to catch the bus.”

“At least let me give you a ride to the stop.”

She stops, turning to look at the car again. “No, you know what, I’m fine. Honestly. It’s just a little bit of weather that I wasn’t really prepared for.”

“All right,” he says, and then, the bright red sports car is out of sight. She scowls, clenching her jaw and moving forward against the torrent of rainwater that seems to be collecting in dips in the sidewalk and rushing down against her ankles. She really hates this city sometimes.

There’s a burst of lightning, and a low rumble of thunder.

She’s starting to feel that way herself.

“Jane!”

Groaning, she squints and tries to find the shape of the red car. “What, did you decide to drive around the block?”

There’s a series of splashes, and then he’s beside her, umbrella in hand, big enough to cover them both. Well, nearly all of her and three-quarters of him. The sleeve of his suit seems to be getting pretty damp though.

“I had to park up the street,” he says. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says. 

“It’s pouring out, and you’re carrying my baby. You think I’m going to leave you out here to get soaked and catch pneumonia?”

She narrows her eyes. “So it’s just about - ”

“No!” he says. “No, of course not. I’m just - I wanted to help. And you didn’t want a ride, so...”

She huffs a small laugh. “Have you  _ seen  _ your car?”

He winces. “Point taken.” 

They walk in silence until the end of the block when a ‘Don’t Walk’ crosswalk sign stops them in favor of traffic.

“So how far is it to the bus stop?” he says.

“Just a few more blocks.”

“Heading to class?”

She shakes her head.

“Anywhere important?”

She shrugs. “Just home.”

“And you didn’t want me to take you?”

The light changes. They start crossing.

“I - ” she starts, crossing her arms over her chest, “I don’t want things to get weird.”

The umbrella dips with his surprise, and he quickly corrects it. “Weird how?”

“Well, with all of this. I mean, you and I - it’s not like we really knew each other before this happened. And I just don’t want you to pretend like this is anything other than what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m carrying your baby. By accident. Your sister inseminated me. This isn’t exactly typical.”

“No,” he says. “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean we still can’t be friendly.”

“You parked your car to come and walk me to the bus stop just because it’s raining. You think that’s friendly?”

“You didn’t want a ride.”

She snorts. “But still.”

“You’re right; this isn’t normal. But that doesn’t mean that now that I’ve gotten to know you that once you have the baby, I won’t want to keep seeing you. I mean, Jane, you’re - ”

They cross another block. In the distance, she can make out the small blurry shape of the bus stop.

“What?” she says.

“You’re so much more amazing than you give yourself credit for. You think that once I met you, I’d want to stop being friends with you?”

She blinks at him, and they come to a stop in the middle of the block. The rain keeps drumming against the top of the umbrella, a quiet, subdued noise. “You think that we’re friends?” 

He swallows, and she follows the bob of his adam’s apple with her eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Oh,” she says, trying to hide her surprise.

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess...maybe I am.”

“I like doing things for my friends, Jane,” he says, changing the umbrella into his other hand. His right hand settles against the small of her back, leading her forward as they approach the bus stop. “Now let a friend walk you to the bus stop, won’t you?”

“Okay,” she says, and he smiles at her, 

“Okay.”

 

 


End file.
